


Fall On Your Knees

by Toft



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He came to your door again tonight.</i></p><p>Note: Harry is seventeen in this story, which is not underage for some, but there is implication of a previously-existing underage relationship, hence the warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall On Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Kink Bingo 08 prize for Swanpride.
> 
> Kink: Rough Sex.

The Potter boy came to your door again tonight, jittering with that perfect adolescent blend of bravado and uncertainty. You weren't waiting; it's been months, after all, a long summer, and it is the first night of the school year. No doubt he would not escape his clinging entourage, nor should he want to. You, of course, were exhausted from the festivities and the noisy mass of new faces, and it was because of that, not because you expected him, that you did not set half the usual wards on your door.

Tonight, he knocked. It was after hours, but still early, for him; early enough that you started, when you heard the door, and snapped, "Who's there?" when you saw nobody. A little early in the year for pranks. Then you heard his sharp exhale, barely a foot in front of you. You stepped aside and out, looked around the corridor again for good measure, and did not flinch as you felt the ephemeral solidity of his body squeeze past you through the door. You muttered, "Bloody kids," in case anyone should be listening, and heard the soft huff of his laugh as you closed the door behind you.

The cloak was a silvery pool at his feet when you turned. His jumper was hanging loose from his skinny frame; he had lost weight over the summer again, and yet, incredibly, grown several inches. The boy flourishes like a weed. You looked over him slowly, enjoying the way he tried so obviously not to squirm, or twitch, or shiver.

"Potter," you said at last. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Professor Snape," he said, too loud. His voice was deeper, more settled in its range. He was rangier, long-limbed, in the awkward limbo of adolescence. He was exquisite.

"Undress," you said. "Now."

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he held your gaze for a second too long before he started to struggle out of his clothes. He did not break his stare until he tugged his jumper over his head. A sliver of skin, dusted with dark hair, appeared for a second as his t-shirt rode up. He tugged off the t-shirt and dropped it on the floor, then began to unbuckle his belt.

"Stop," you said. He froze, looking up sharply. Ah, he was wondering whether you were having second thoughts. Let him worry.

They lose their bloom so fast, the boys; their taste is sweeter for the bitter tang of time running out. You used to rush this, when you thought you would be caught. But Potter is too good at breaking the rules. And he comes to you.

"Kneel," you said. He took a breath, and dropped awkwardly to his knees. You could already see his arousal, the line of his cock pressing visibly against his jeans, and his face turned up towards yours was beginning to flush a little. You slapped him, hard, jerking his head to the side. He made a choked noise and lost his balance, but immediately caught himself on the floor and met your gaze, breathing hard, thin red lines blooming on his cheek. Slowly, but not too slowly, he shuffled up onto his knees again.

He didn't say, _what was that for?_

Potter never asks here, never talks back. He knows what every blow is for. He knows what he has done. You do not, of course; but that doesn't matter.

You slapped him again, on the other cheek. He was expecting this one, and did not overbalance. His breathing was loud in the silent room.

"Open my robes," you said. He fumbled at the buttons, then again on your trousers - it's too cold not to wear them underneath - and then his fingers were cool against your skin as he exposed you to the air. You were erect, of course, and your voice was thick when you said, "Take me in your mouth."

The boy did. His cheeks hollowed around you, his mouth silky-warm and pink, and you wound your fingers in his hair. His eyes fluttered closed, and he made a noise when you tightened your grip, pulling his hair until his forehead whitened. You held his head with both hands, then, and fucked his mouth as he made choking sounds around you and clenched his fists in your robes. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel, for a second, your rage, let it trickle red into your pleasure, like dragon's blood. You tugged the boy's head back when you felt him start to struggle involuntarily. His face was curiously blurred, nose and eyes streaming. He took a few deep, wet breaths, and you shook him by the hair like a rag doll. "You're disgusting," you snapped.

His eyes rolled up to you, unseeing, and for a second, you wanted to end it, as you have before. Carry him to your bed, give him a beaker of something to help him sleep without dreams, feed him until he is the solid-framed seventeen-year-old his body wants to be. You fantasize, sometimes, about wiping his mind clean, and being the first he saw afterwards, seeing yourself in his eyes clear of past and future inevitabilities. You could do it. Sometimes, you think he wants you to.

But you are selfish, of course; you know what you would look like, to an undamaged seventeen-year-old. What you are. You won't do it, not just for him. That is why he comes to you.

"Get up," you said, and tugged him to his feet by his hair, barely giving him enough time to get his legs under him. You shoved him before you, walked him to the bedroom and stopped him in front of the bed. You reached around his waist and unbuckled his belt by feel, his chest rising and falling against the sides of your wrists in fast, fluttery breaths. You slid his belt through its loops, enjoying his squirm, and thought about using it on him, knowing he was thinking the same thing. You threw it down to the side onto the stone floor, then brushed a kiss onto his bare shoulder, and he flinched.

"Tug them down to your knees," you said. He did, awkwardly, hissing as he eased himself out of his jeans. You made him shuffle forward, hobbled by the denim, and bend at the waist over the bed, elbows on the covers, looking forward at the wall, his arse bare and even whiter than his chest. "Did you prepare yourself before you came here?"

He says nothing, so you pinch his buttock sharply, and his spine straightens with a jerk.

"No."

His voice cracks a little, and you realize it's the first time you've heard him speak for four months.

"Then you'll take the consequences."

You use only enough oil to make it comfortable for you, and he makes a soft, pained noise as you force yourself into him, demanding his body open up to you a half-inch at a time. He is so tight, and you are on the edge of pain, it is impossible to breathe. Beneath you, his whole body is shaking and rigid. You are still wearing all your clothes.

"Nn -" his voice breaks, a noise through his teeth.

"Quiet."

Fully inside him, you fought to stay in control. He was taking deep, gasping breaths, and his every shiver racheted up through you, your orgasm a white-hot snake coiled and waiting to strike. You decided you could last, and thrust roughly once, making him cry out, then had to hold yourself still again for a teetering second. You heard a voice that sounds nothing like yours grate out a name. His.

"Yeah," he whispered, "god - _professor_ -"

You fucked him just to shut him up. You made no concessions to him, just used him until he was moaning with every thrust and rubbing against the mattress, trying to spread his legs further and writhing when the jeans held him pinioned, and you spilled into him with a gasp, holding his hips still until he whined.

"Touch yourself. Now," you said, and he shoved a hand between his legs without finesse and came with you still inside him, crying out, his muscles tightening around you in a series of sharp shudders that sent aftershocks through you.

When you could breathe again, you pulled back from him, ignoring his grunt of pain, and cleaned yourself quickly so you could make yourself decent, stand fully clothed as he pulled up his jeans. He stood uncomfortably under your eye as he muttered the cleaning spells you taught him, wincing when they scoured too roughly.

"Heal yourself," you said, when he took a few flinching steps to retrieve his t-shirt.

"I'll do it tomorrow," he said.

"Suit yourself."

You were starting to feel tired. He would not look at you. It was a relief when he disappeared under the cloak.

"What do you say?" you said, to the empty room, and for a moment, silence spoke back to you. Then, an invisible sigh. A brush of something against your face. A piece of fluff, perhaps. Or hair.

"Thank you, professor," he said.

You held the door for him as he left.  
End


End file.
